True Love Is A Wooden Cane
by house-of-insanity
Summary: “God bless us, everyone—oh, wait, that’s YOUR line!” A Cyrano de Bergerac modeled parody about how the doctors of PPTH come to find love.
1. CANE You Hear Me?

**Item One: **Hi!  
**Item Two: **For you unfortunate people who have not read _Cyrano de Bergerac_, here is a wee summary. Cyrano and Christian are a pair of cadets in the French military with their hearts set on Roxane, a brainy babe who values a quick wit and a pretty face in her men. Cyrano is a masterful speaker, but he is self-conscious because of his enormous nose and feels that he could never win Roxane's heart. Instead he joins forces with Christian, truly the epitome of "all brawn, no brain," to help him woo Roxane. Cyrano writes love letters, improvises sweet nothings, and pretends to know nothing of it—all in the name of _another_ man's love! Will Cyrano ever speak for himself and so win fair lady's heart? Read the play to find out, because it truly is a wonder and exceptionally better than anything I could ever write.  
**Item Three:** I am having a _contest_! Perhaps you've noticed, perhaps you haven't, but in any case…_this story has no title_! I launched all of my creative energy into this story, and consequently have none left to figure out what to call the damned thing. The first person to come up with a sufficiently likable title (subject to _my_ discretion and mine alone) will have a character named after them later in the story! (Or, if you'd prefer not to give out your name—an understandable sentiment in this day and age—just choose a name you like and I'll use that instead.) All submissions must be made before I post the second chapter, prizes are non-refundable/non-exchangeable, employees of FanFiction and their families are prohibited from entering, blah blah blah. We all know the rules, and when we don't we make them up.  
**Item Four: **I don't own House. Or _Cyrano de Bergerac_, come to think of it. So don't sue. If you sue me, I won't be able to afford to go to my _first-choice college_! (Yes, I was accepted to my university of choice. You may politely applaud, if you so choose, or just skip this part if it bores you. I just had to slip it in—I'm very happy.)  
**Item Five: **Ha! There is no Item Five. Read. Enjoy. _Review_.

* * *

Chapter One:

"I have _what_?!"

House winced. "Easy," he told the enraged patient, mentally calculating how far her scream had carried. The clinic was full of chattering people, so maybe not _too_ far. _Maybe_ Cuddy hadn't heard. _Maybe _he was safe. He couldn't be sure, though. "It's treatable," he continued cautiously.

"I still don't get it. Lip—lip—how do you say it?" She crossed her chubby arms and glared at him from under her caterpillar eyebrows.

"Lipedema," House said. "That's the technical term. I find it easier to say 'Painful Fat Syndrome,' though. Rolls off your tongue. _Paaaaaiiiinfuuuuulll Faaaaaatttt Syyyyndroooooommmme_." He staged an amused chuckle at the infuriated expression on her face. "Mrs. Arnold, it's good news! We can make the swelling go away, the tenderness disappear, the joint pain stop! It's like winning the lottery, only you're losing weight instead of gaining a _fat _wad of cash." He grinned wolfishly at her.

"You're calling me fat and I'm supposed to be _happy_?" she asked disbelievingly.

He shrugged. "It's better than your diagnoses," he said. "I mean, come on—lupus? Leukemia? You wouldn't want those, would you? Not for some measly joint pain?"

"And it's so much better to be a fat cow," she grumbled. "I'm getting a second opinion."

"Oh, but then some other doctor will say you have something else! All that time together, all that work I did, all wasted!"

Mrs. Arnold regarded House with a tired gaze. "You took one look at me, glanced at my weight, and said I had lip—lip—"

"Painful Fat Syndrome?" he supplied helpfully.

"For_get _it!" she said, grabbing her purse and waddling to the door. "I'm not going to take this mental abuse. I have some other problem—"

"Something that conveniently isn't your responsibility to fix, perhaps?" he suggested, following her into the clinic. "Something that you won't need to bother yourself with, other than taking a pill or two per day, maybe a little minor surgery? _Certainly_ no diet, no exercise—"

"I drank Diet Coke this morning," she shot at him, holding up a McDonald's cup. House wondered if he should inquire what she _ate_ with the Diet Coke, but decided against it. _Probably her children_, he thought, grinning. "What?" she growled angrily, noticing his expression.

"I was just thinking what a great start that was."

"'Great start.'" Mrs. Arnold snorted, her cheeks puffing out like two red balloons stretched across her face. "You think you know everything, already deciding what I need to do. Well, I'll tell you what, Dr…Dr…"

House rolled his eyes. "For the last time, it's Painful Fat—_heyyyyy_! Almost got me that time, didn't you? Jokester." He wagged his index finger at her. "Dr. House is my name."

"I'll tell you what, Dr. House. I don't think any doctor worth his salt would be walking around with _that_ in his hand!" She pointed at his cane triumphantly.

House glanced down at it. "My cane?"

"Yes," she said, sounding pleased with herself. "That big dumb cane. Can't be _that_ great of a doctor, now, can you, if you have to use a _cane_."

He mockingly clutched his chest in pain. "My heart is broken, Mrs. Arnold. 'That big dumb cane?' It wounds me to hear it."

"Well, then, maybe you'll—"

"What kind of person _says_ something like that?"

Mrs. Arnold looked confused. "Did I really hurt your—"

"This cane is a virtual goldmine of repartee, and you don't even tap the surface of it? It's downright sickening."

"Repar-_what_?"

House was beginning to get annoyed. "_Repartee_. Banter. Witticisms. And your 'big dumb cane' is hardly an example of any of those. Anyone with half a brain would have snarfed that opportunity like it was an Oreo."

She crossed her arms, shifted all of her 194 pounds—he had weighed her, so he knew—to her left leg, and cocked an eyebrow expectantly. "And I suppose you could do better?"

"Abundantly," he said. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. "Oh, I see. You want proof."

"Yeah. _Proof_."

"I'll tell you what. I'll give you one example for every ten pounds you weigh." By this time a small crowd had gathered around the two contenders, and they oohed and ahhed at the prospect, stepping back so they could gage how much entertainment they would be getting. "So," House said. "Why don't you tell all the nice people how many one-liners I'm going to have to come up with before I can get the hell out of here?"

"Twenty," she said proudly, and everyone gasped.

"That extra four pounds doesn't count," he argued. "It's only nineteen, for all _194 pounds_."

Mrs. Arnold didn't seem to mind the public slight. "What's the matter, Dr. House? Chicken?"

"No," he said. "If I was, you would have eaten me by now." Most of the crowd snickered, but House heard an infuriated groan from the back. He glanced in its direction and sighed. Cuddy. Better have his fun now, because he'd pay for it later.

"We're waiting," said Mrs. Arnold expectantly. "All twenty."

"All right, all right," he said. "I'm ready." And he began to rattle off insults as fast as he could think of them.

"Let's start slowly. In a hypothetical situation, supposing I had replied to your 'big dumb cane' statement with a hearty, 'Ouch,' you could have replied, 'How do you think the _ground_ feels when you poke it with that thing?'" Some polite laughter came from the crowd.

"In a belittling tone: 'What, can't afford a _wheelchair_?'

"Knowledgeable: 'Did you know that that cane is almost twice as tall as the shortest person in the world?'" House eyed Mrs. Arnold for a moment, then added, "Good thing he's not standing behind _you_—that's a terrible view for a guy who drew the short straw in life anyway." A few more giggles surfaced around the waiting room.

"Complimentary: 'You know, I can't think of a better advertisement for a hospital.'

"Generous: 'I've got some baby wipes if you want to shine her up a little.'

"Reproachful: 'Think of all the tables that lost their legs just so you could carry that cane around with you!'

"Conversational: 'You know, I've been looking for some nice kindling. Where do you get yours?'

"Religious: 'I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a _God_ who could take care of that leg—for a tithe.'

"Comical." House scanned his audience and went to a little girl with her blonde hair in pigtails. "Do you like knock-knock jokes?" he asked her, bending to her level.

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"Well, let's try one. Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Cane."

"Cane who?'

"_Cane_ you hear me?!" House cried animatedly. The little girl laughed, and the rest of the children joined her. Even their parents cracked smiles. It was a good sign—he'd won the favor of the majority of the crowd with only nine lines down. He went on.

"Disdainful: 'I hope you drive faster than you walk.'

"Pithy: 'Well, as the old saying goes, two legs are better than one—but three is the best of all!'

"Glib: 'Using that hook at the end must be easier than asking someone to pass the salt…that is, if you even have someone to eat _with_.'" The staff in the room hooted, knowing how true _that_ was. The grin on House's face was almost humble, and he continued confidently.

"Piratical: 'I've heard of a peg leg, and I've heard of an iron hook—but _never_ a peg hook!'

"Stuck-up: 'That shade of wood doesn't match your shirt, you know.'

"Sympathetic: I'll bet you get a lot of pity dates with that thing. Hell, even _I'd_ go out with you.'" A few of the female patients giggled shyly, and even the nurses grinned. They had almost grown fond of him as his self-deprecating sideshow proceeded.

"I would not!" Mrs. Arnold cried. "I wouldn't go out with you—"

"For all the ice cream in aisle twelve?" he suggested, leering at her.

She glared at him. "You still have five more to go."

"Wow," House said, feigning mental exhaustion. "Five more? This is getting tough. I don't know how much more I can take." A ripple of applause waved through the crowd, and a few teenagers hooted in encouragement. House smiled, pleased. "Thank you, thank you. I'm ready now.

"Naïve: 'What do you do with it when you play hopscotch?'

"Yuletide: 'Surely you've got enough of that candy cane to share…'" Perhaps unconsciously, Mrs. Arnold licked her lips at the mention of candy. House imagined she liked that one.

"Helpful: 'I've got some pliers if you want to pull that splinter.'

"Racy: 'I'll bet that cane was the end of many a date, if you know what I mean.'" He saw the mothers that had smiled at him before now involuntarily clamp their hands over their children's ears and glare at him. He mentally winced at the loss of support, but was elated to hear Cuddy's surprised bark of laughter. _Time to bring it home_, he thought.

"And finally, dramatic: '"God bless us, everyone"—oh, wait, that's _your_ line!'" House took a bow as the audience applauded. Out of the corner of his eye, he even saw Cuddy shake her head, hiding a small smile. He grinned—his work here was done. "Thank you, everyone, thank you. Oh, and Mrs. Arnold—good luck with 'lip—lip—'…_Painful Fat Syndrome_!"

"Oh…oh…" Mrs. Arnold stuttered, unable to think of anything to say that would top him. At last she settled on, "Oh, hobble back to your office, you terrible man!" and stomped out of the clinic.

No one said anything for an awkward moment, then House chimed in. "It's okay, people," he said soothingly. "Animal control will take care of Godzilla over there in no time. Back to business. Who wants to go next?"

The patients immediately sat down, carefully avoiding his gaze. He shrugged. "Nobody?" No answer. "Well, I guess I'll just _hobble_ back to my office. Stop by if you change your mind. I'm in the Stay-the-hell-out wing, right next to the ICU. See you." House turned and walked out of the clinic.

Seconds later, he heard the tell-tale click of Cuddy's heels behind him. "Here we go," he muttered under his breath, turning to face her. "Yes."

"Yes what?" she asked, confused.

"Yes, I'll perform at the next charity dinner—for a tithe."

House saw the corners of her mouth twitching. "I think you mean _price_," she said.

"Nope," he told her. "Definitely tithe."

Cuddy sighed. "House, sooner or later you're going to have to realize that you're not God. I'm not even sure you're human."

"Somewhere between divinity and humanity, huh? An angel, perhaps?"

"More like somewhere between humanity and pure evil, like a Neanderthal."

"Ouch."

"Oh, wait, I know this one. Ummm, 'How do you think the patients feel when you treat them like idiots?'"

"The same as usual, considering most of the time they _are_ idiots."

Cuddy looked pained. "House," she said.

"Yes?" He drew the word out as long as possible, making it insolent and cute all at once—at least, that's what he hoped.

"Don't be rude to the patients. Their egos aren't as healthy as yours is—they can't take insults like you do."

"Advice to grow up and live in the real world and, for God's sake, stop living out of fast food restaurants is not an insult."

"It is the way you do it."

"Because they won't listen the way _you_ do it."

"The way I do it won't get the hospital sued."

"The way I do it saves lives."

"No one is going to die of Lipedema."

"I wish they would, if only so they'd stop coming to the clinic."

Cuddy blinked. "Stop. Talking. To. The patients. Listen to them, write a prescription, say good-bye. Rinse, lather, repeat until clinic duty is over. You'll get the hang of it sooner or later."

"You might as well pass out coffin catalogues with the placebos if you're going to be that way about it."

"You might as well roast your medical license over an open fire if you're going to be _that_ way about it."

"You might as well _shut up_," House said without thinking.

They were standing squarely in front of each other, appearing almost angry. Cuddy had her hands on her hips, and her lips were set in a firm, humorless line. House had drawn himself to his full height, looking down at her much like a parent might at an obstinate teenager. To the passers-by, they looked to be seconds away from a physical brawl, but they knew better. House could see Cuddy struggling to even her breathing to keep from laughing, and Cuddy saw the laugh lines at the sides of House's eyes beginning to crease in amusement.

"So there, smarty-pants," House finished after a moment.

Cuddy took a deep breath, and for a moment he thought she might play along. "Six more clinic hours for the week," she said finally, bursting his hopes. "I want them logged by Friday."

House watched as she turned on her heel and walked toward her office. "Killjoy."

"Crippled half-wit."

"Bare-chested hussy."

"Cane-toting lowlife."

"Go manicure your nails."

"Go play in the amputee ward." She eyed his cane, then added wickedly, "Maybe you'll make some friends." Satisfied that she had won, she walked away, leaving House standing by the elevator.

"Touché," he murmured, pressing the button. He had to admit she was clever. And funny. And absolutely _exquisite_ in those darling little outfits she wore. Yes, he decided as he climbed into the elevator, Cuddy was all right, for being such a formidable member of her sex. He pressed the second floor button and waited as the elevator went up.

His beeper went off just as the doors opened. Glancing at it, he sighed. Wilson. He closed the door and hit the button for the first floor, where Oncology was located—much, he noticed, to the chagrin of the group of people that had been waiting for the elevator. He sighed and thought, _This had better be good._

* * *

Thanks for stopping by! Don't forget to review! 


	2. Sugar CANE

**Item One: **By default, Rose12345 has won the title contest with her suggestion (which I have slightly modified, but that's okay—her idea inspired me)! Congratulations, Rose12345; you will have a character named with the name of your choice in the coming chapters. Let me know your decision through a review or a PM or whatever.  
**Item Two: **The rating on this story has officially gone from K+ to T! You have been warned.  
**Item Three: **I don't own House or Cyrano de Bergerac.

* * *

Chapter Two:

"This had better be good," House announced as he walked into Wilson's office.

Wilson glanced up from his telephone conversation with pleading eyes. He held up a piece of paper that read in desperate, hastily scribbled letters, _SAVE ME! _"There was a 30 percent chance of survival if we had caught it at that stage," he said into the phone, still looking at House. "But even if we had, it would have meant months or even years of—" Incomprehensible chattering arose from the phone that even House had to blink at. "I'm very sorry it turned out this way, but you need to understand that—" As the voice on the other end arose again, Wilson hissed, "Help me!"

"I'll just come back later. You look busy." House turned toward the door.

Wilson frantically threw a pen at his back.

House stared at the pen after it hit the floor, then glanced at his friend. "Dr. Wilson!" he yelled, loud enough to make people in the Oncology waiting room stop what they were doing and listen. "One of your cancer children is coding! We need you in here, stat!"

"I'm having a small medical emergency; can I call you back?" Wilson asked. "Good-bye." He hanged up the phone and glared at House. "Why did you do that?"

"Because you hurt me."

"House, that was a very serious call! I might get sued, and yelling _that_ certainly didn't help!"

"Who'd sue _you_?" House asked, truly curious. "Everybody knows you don't have a cent since the divorce started."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I can always count on you to be supportive."

"So, is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"The reason you paged me. You needed to be rescued from the big scary phone call?"

"No," he said. "I need some…advice."

House blinked. "Advice? Usually you're the one giving the stuff…a bit too liberally, I might add."

"Yeah, well, I'm…having some trouble," Wilson said uncomfortably. "It's something personal."

"Say no more." House settled into a chair in front of Wilson's desk, pulled out his Vicodin, and dumped two pills onto the desk.

Wilson stared at them quizzically. "Are drugs your solution to _everything_?"

"I haven't found one that will put money in the bank, but if you take enough of these, they'll blur your bank statement so you can't see how much cabbage you _don't_ have."

He pushed them away forlornly. "This is different."

"Oh," House said knowingly. "Love life got you down?"

There was a pause. "How did you know?" Wilson asked wonderingly.

House pulled out his scrip pad. "The look on your face is one of a man who hasn't had a reason to sing the Hallelujah chorus since Michael Jackson was black. A few little blue—"

"Whoa!" Wilson cried suddenly. "Love life and sex life are two different things."

"Maybe in your world," he snorted, dropping his pad. "Come on, cut to the chase. I've got things to do, places to go, minions to terrorize. Speaking of my minions, though, where are they? Maybe one of them will play therapist for you."

"I haven't seen them."

"Oh, that's right. Cameron's out today—visiting her husband's mother's cousin's…someone—I can't remember who. It's the anniversary of her husband's death."

"Poor Cam."

House waved his hand dismissively. "It's been five years. Get over it. Move on." Wilson looked like he was about to say something, but House cut him off, adding, "And Chase is giving a lecture over at the University."

"Whose idea was that?"

"Cuddy's," House replied. "The professors asked her to send over someone interesting, and she figured his accent would get their attention, even if his medical knowledge doesn't."

"Better not let Chase hear you say that. He might get mad and slug you."

"Chase hits like a girl. A girl with great hair, but a girl nonetheless." House stroked his chin thoughtfully, then said, "I don't know where Foreman is, though. He's not one to run out on his job. Not on _me_."

"Oh, gee, I don't know, maybe he's outside picking sugar _cane_," Wilson said, looking at House. "I heard about what you did in the clinic."

House sneered at him. "How long did it take you to come up with that one? No, don't tell me: you've been dying to use it since forever." At Wilson's surprised look, he added, "Oh, please. You've probably been practicing that in front of a mirror every morning for the past year, just waiting for an opportunity. Well, bravo. I'm impressed. _Not_."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Maybe I should just wait until Cameron gets back. She'll understand—and _she_ won't laugh at me."

"I won't laugh at you!" House promised. "Talk about you behind your back, play cruel pranks to expose your dirty little secrets, and make faces at you when you're not looking, perhaps—but _never_ laugh."

This was invitation enough for Wilson, who took a deep breath and began. "Well…I kind of, sort of, _maybe_ like someone in the hospital a little bit."

House clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "Okay, Jimmy, and how does that make you feel?"

"Like puking." It was House's turn to look shocked. "I mean, she's so smart and pretty and funny, and I'm so—"

"Stupid and ugly and awkward?" House supplied helpfully.

To his amazement, Wilson didn't protest; in fact, he seemed glad that someone understood. "Next to her, yes!" he replied excitedly. "I just get so nervous every time I talk to her now, and it's getting to the point where I can't even look at her without getting heart palpitations—"

"That _does_ sound serious."

"So…what do I do?"

House pretended to be deep in thought. "Well," he mused, "I think I need to know more about this woman. Maybe a weight, height, date of birth, social security number, mother's maiden name, _her _name would be a good start. Just so I can get a feel for—"

"Oh, no, you don't," Wilson said warningly. "If I tell you who she is, you'll run straight to her and cough up every last detail of this conversation. No, wait, that's too obvious for you. You'd write some sort of love note to her, and make it so disgusting she'd fire me, and you'd sign _my_—"

"It's Cuddy, isn't it?" House asked, sounding bored.

"How did you—"

"'She'd fire me?' Come on, Jimmy, how stupid do you think I am?"

Wilson groaned. "Oh, boy. I'm doomed."

"I'll say. Believe me, nothing I could tell you would help. Cuddy hates me."

"Cuddy _talks_ to you, which is more than I can say for me."

"Oh. So you want to learn to talk."

"Yes!"

"To a woman?"

"Yes!"

House regarded him coolly. "You're pathetic."

"I _know_ I am! Why else do you think I'd be desperate enough to ask _you_?"

"To spend some quality time with me. We don't really hang out that much anymore. We should take a day, go see a ball game, drink beer, do something manly, just to see what it's like. I'm free Saturday."

"I need your help!"

"You need Dr. _Phil's_ help. But if you finally get her alone but just can't deliver top performance—"

"Believe me, _that_ will not be a problem," Wilson said, doing his best to sound menacing.

House's lip curled involuntarily. "Good luck. You'll _need_ great luck, but that's all I can offer you now."

"You'll be sorry," Wilson seethed. "One day, Cuddy and I are going to walk in here holding hands, and you're going to think, 'How stupid was I? I thought he couldn't do it.'"

"If you _could_ do it in the first place, then why did you call _me_ here?"

"I needed a pep talk!"

"You were chicken."

Wilson sighed. "I was."

"And so you shall remain." House walked out without another word.

* * *

"I love you."

"I love _you_."

"Let's run away together."

"But what if they find out? What will they do to us?"

"We'll just have to slip past the security cameras and then—"

"House!" Cuddy called from the doorway. She flicked on the lights and came into the room. "Sorry to interrupt your soap opera theatre—" she switched off the TV "—but I need your help."

House blinked. "_My_ help? I didn't know I did that."

Cuddy smiled caustically. "You'll just have to learn, then, won't you?" She sat down in front of his desk, all business. "I just need a small favor. Nothing huge, you understand, just a little something to—"

"I'm going to have to sell my soul or something drastic like that, aren't I?"

"Nothing like that. I'd just like you to ask one simple question to one simple person and that will be that."

Remembering his earlier conversation, House grinned and said, "Let me guess: you want me to ask Wilson if he's madly in love with you."

"Wow," Cuddy replied, sounding slightly disarmed, "what are you, psychic?"

For the second time that day, House was shocked. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—I wasn't _serious_!"

"Well, I was. I mean, you don't have to ask if he's in _love_ with me or anything." Cuddy laughed shrilly. "Just say something like, 'So Wilson, I was talking with Cuddy, and it turns out she thinks you're really nice and she'd like to get to know you a little bit more. Would you be interested in that?' You know. Short, sweet—all those things you're not."

"Yeah, I could do that, and then afterward we could paint each other's nails and play Barbies." House regarded her tiredly. "Save _my_ breath and ask him yourself."

"But I don't know if he likes me! If I were sure, I'd ask him myself, but I just can't _tell_—"

"That's half the fun of it," House argued. "Love is a crapshoot. Someone smart said that…oh, yeah! It was _me_, just now. Why would you want to take a gamble on Wilson, though?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, for starters, his track record is worse than mine, and I—"

"Can't even run," she finished for him. "That was a cheap shot."

"Admittedly so," House said. "I thought chicks weren't hip to that stuff, though. You know, three marriages, long hours, wandering eye—not good traits in a potential mate, you know."

"I don't want to _marry_ him!" Cuddy exclaimed. "I just want to have _one_ date. _One_. I mean, he's such a _nice_ man, so soft-spoken and easygoing, and he's got the nicest brown eyes, and I'm sure he's having a hard time with his marriage ending, and I just want to be there for him—"

"Oh my God," House said disbelievingly. "You're turning into Cameron. Next thing I know you'll leave Wilson for one of his patients and I'll get stuck explaining the whole thing."

"It's not out of pity," Cuddy insisted. "Obviously I feel for him, but for a while now I've been noticing how nice he is, and I just want to see if he's like that through and through."

"He's not. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Not by a long shot."

"There are plenty of nice doctors in this hospital. Why him?"

Cuddy shook her head. "I don't know."

"Dr. Simpson's nice, Dr. Winand is nice, Dr. Cameron is _very_ nice, especially if you're open to new things, _I'm_ nice—"

She giggled. "Now I know you're insane."

"I think you should experiment with the rest of your staff before you settle on Wilson. There are other fish in the sea, you know."

"_Please_?"

House couldn't help but stare at her. Her face was contorted in pure, unadulterated hope, and it unnerved him. He'd never seen her like this before, never quite so vulnerable and open as she was now. It was almost an attractive look for her—except for the fact that Wilson was behind all of it. It just didn't seem right somehow…

She mistook his silence for his imminent refusal. "Well, _maybe_ you're—"

"Oh, fine," he grumbled, suddenly sick of talking about it. "Look, I'll ask him, all right? Even though this is all a disaster just waiting to happen—"

Cuddy smiled in relief. "Thanks, Greg! You're the best! Just let me know tomorrow, okay? See you then…And, uh, don't you have clinic duty about now?"

House glanced longingly at his TV. "I was just about to go down…but my leg hurts really badly today, and I—"

"Not gonna happen," she warned him. "You're doing me a _little_ favor, remember? It's not like you bought me the Hope Diamond or something. Besides, you still owe me from this morning's little fiasco."

"All right, all right, all right," he said. "What's next, am I going to be making coffee runs for you? Feeding your hamster while you're on vacation? Training to be your personal masseuse?"

"Maybe, if you don't do what I asked you to," she said, smiling, and then she was gone.

House began to twirl his cane, slowly at first, and then faster as he thought. So Cuddy liked Wilson. Wilson liked Cuddy. Wilson and Cuddy liked each other. And Greg—dear God, she had called him _Greg_—where did good ole Greg fit in?

Somehow he didn't see himself playing Cupid. He was crippled, not blind, he'd never learned to use a bow and arrow, and he certainly wasn't Romantic of the Year.

Wilson was such a fool. Sure, he was a good friend and all, but there wasn't a lot to work with when it came to the way he talked. He was a man of very little brain—kind of like Pooh, except without the affinity for honey. His words were simple, his speech merely acceptable, and his nerves hyperactive. Wilson's problem was that he cared too much about how other people saw him, what the right thing to do was, how saying something would make him look.

Cuddy was the exact opposite. Sure, she gave a damn about public opinion, but that was her job as the Dean of Medicine—she _had_ to care. Beyond that, she took matters into her own hands and didn't care what came out of her mouth as long as it got the results she wanted. She liked to talk—most women did, he figured—but at least she always had something new and intriguing to say. She could make anything into a conversation, a debate, or even an argument…so why wasn't she able to talk to Wilson herself?

Oh, God. This was already getting serious.

If it had been just Wilson's feelings at stake, House would have been able to let it go with no trouble. But after finding out that Cuddy—_Cuddy_!—had goo-goo eyes for the tongue-tied oncologist with pen protectors _inside_ pen protectors, he couldn't ignore it. What Cuddy wanted, Cuddy got. It was a general rule at PPTH…and anyway, he supposed it would be nice to make her happy. It was a _small_ favor, after all…

He sighed and dropped his cane to the ground with a _thud_. Somehow he was going to have to pull this off.

But how?

Thank you _ever_ so much for giving this a read. Please review!


	3. Stupid CANE

**Item One: **I don't own House or Cyrano de Bergerac. I'm not making any money of this...not that I could if I tried.

* * *

Chapter Three:

At eleven thirty that night, Wilson had just snuggled into his bed when his doorbell rang. _Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding_—whoever it was sure wasn't going to take no for an answer. He sighed and flicked on his light. Marching down the stairs, he mentally ran through all the people that could conceivably be at his door at this hour and only came up with one name: House.

"Take a wrong turn on the way home?" he asked as he opened the door, too sleepy to argue.

"Not me," he replied, stepping in. "I was bored, I got scared of the bogeyman, I haven't paid my rent in three months—take your pick."

"Nice try. So why are you—"

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

"Your love life…or lack thereof."

Wilson blinked. "Okay…So what's the big deal? Why now, at eleven thirty at night?"

"I figured you'd be awake anyway, moaning softly to yourself about love and loss as you cried yourself to sleep."

"You figured wrong," Wilson said, gazing forlornly up the stairs. "I was just settling in for the night."

House nodded. "So I see—there aren't even any tearstains on your cheeks yet."

Wilson's patience was beginning to wear thin. "What do you want, House? What's so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"The chief, the boss, the big cheese—she's into you."

"…_What_?"

House, feeling increasingly sickened by the idea, grumbled, "Cuddy thinks you're cute."

"You're kidding."

"Actually, I am. She said you were _nice_. I read between the lines, though, and concluded that she believes somewhere inside that dorky lab coat beats the heart of a genuine babe."

Wilson grinned, unable to believe his good fortune. "You really think so?"

"Trust me, she wants nothing more than to rip your clothes off and help you remember what sex feels like…if there's any remembering to be done on your part, at least."

"Hey. No raunchy jokes. Not about Cuddy."

"Oh, yes, we wouldn't want to dishonor _Cuddy_. God knows, she's so pure, so modest, so virginal."

"Not for long," Wilson said, smiling mischievously.

"What's that thing the kids say these days? Oh, yeah: TMI." At Wilson's confused look, he elaborated. "Too much information."

"You're just jealous because Cuddy likes _me_."

"She's _interested_ in you. Stop sounding like such a middle-schooler."

"So what do I do now?"

"Now?" House blinked. "Now you might need to actually talk to her."

"_Talk_ to her? Why?"

"To ask her out on a _date_. I know it's been a while, but those are those things where you and the object of your affections get together and you wine and dine her until she's so drunk she can't remember her _name_—"

"So that's what you owe your romantic success to…or lack thereof."

House smirked. "Touché," he said. "So tell me: what are you going to do?"

"What _should_ I do? Should we go to a movie? Do people still do that?"

"Last I heard, Hollywood was still in business. Nothing good's out, though."

"Any horror flicks playing?"

House rolled his eyes. "Some date. Cuddy doesn't seem like the type for horror movies. She might get scared."

"If she _does_, I can—"

"Pull the comforting act. I know. It's too clichéd—she'd find you out in a second. Try again."

"What about…miniature golfing?"

"Too cold this time of year."

"She can snuggle up to me and—"

"She'll see right through it. Jesus, I know you're new at this, but give poor Cuddy some credit. She's not an _idiot_."

"All right, _Yoda_, what would you do?"

"Cuddy. That's the whole objective."

Wilson glared at him. "If you're not going to be serious about this, then you can just—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," House told him. "Hold on there. I never said I wasn't _serious_."

"Well, you're sure not—"

"I'd take her to a museum," House mumbled.

Wilson shook his head. "Too nerdy. I'm trying to steer myself _away_ from that image, not dive right into it."

"Cuddy _likes_ that you're nerdy! That's why she wants to date you! Besides, she's the kind of woman that needs her _mind_ stimulated. If you don't excite her mentally, you're a lifetime benchwarmer on Cuddy's baseball field."

"I disagree."

"Disagree all you want. I'm right."

"I think I should go with the classic approach. Dinner and a movie."

House rubbed his temples exhaustedly. "We already looked at the movie angle. And for God's sake, whatever you do, _don't go to dinner_."

"Why?" Wilson looked truly puzzled.

He sighed. "She has Irritable Bowel Syndrome," he said sarcastically. At his friend's disgusted look, he quickly added, "Good Lord, it was a _joke_."

"Not a very funny one. But tell me, what's wrong with going to dinner?"

"You have nothing to stimulate good dinnertime conversation."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Wilson scoffed. "We have so much in common, like the hospital!"

"_Boring_! Picture this: you pick her up, negotiate plans for the evening, directions to said plans, and that takes about the entire ride to the restaurant. You're seated by a charming maître d', you steal cute little glances at each other while pretending to scan the menu, and finally you order."

"Sounds almost…oh, what's the word I'm looking for? _Just right_."

"I'm not finished. As I was saying: you order. This is the real deal now: no food to talk about, no suggestions to make, no distractions. Just you, her, and the wine. You burst into a long-winded story about this irritating clinic patient you had, and she says, 'Oh, let's not talk about work tonight. Let's catch up. Tell me how you are.' And you say…"

"I'm fine; how are you?" Wilson replied automatically.

"I'm great, thanks," House said, doing his best to imitate Cuddy. He flashed Wilson a brilliant smile to help the illusion along.

Either the smile didn't help or Wilson truly didn't know what to do, but the two men stood gazing at each other for over ten seconds before Wilson finally protested, "But this isn't how it's going to be!"

House threw up his hands in frustration. "Yes, it is! Don't you get it? You can't even play pretend with your best pal in the world. How do you think it's going to feel when you're sitting across from her, with her hands right next to yours and her cleavage hanging out all over the table and her huge pearly whites shining out at you…and you don't know what to say?"

"I won't be looking at her cleavage. I'll be looking right into her eyes."

"Wilson," House said authoritatively. "Whatever you do: _don't look into her eyes_."

"Why not?"

"Because then you'll really lose it. You'll sweat, you'll stammer, you'll feel like you're choking. I'm telling you: don't do it."

"You know what? I think you're making all of this up."

"Yeah—_I'm_ the one who's never gone on a bad date._ I_ wouldn't know," he said, thinking of Cameron.

"You're just jealous because…because _you_ like Cuddy!"

"I don't like _anybody_."

"Forget it. I don't need your help—all you're trying to do is sabotage me. I can handle this on my own. In fact…" Wilson turned and dashed up the stairs. "I'm going to do something about it right now!"

"It's too late to call her!" House cried, amazed at his friend's naivety. How the hell was he going to get up those stairs? Stupid cane…

"I'm not going to call her, dummy!" Wilson called. "I'm going to shoot her an email!"

House rolled his eyes. "My, my, aren't we getting bold."

"Dear Cuddy," he read aloud.

"Oh, for the love of God, don't call her 'dear,'" House pleaded.

"And I suppose you could do better?"

"Infinitely. Now get your ass down here and let me write a real email."

* * *

Within ten minutes House had composed an email that even Wilson had to admit was nothing short of genius. It read: 

_Hey Cuddy,_

_I can be naughtier than nice. Don't believe me? Be ready at seven tomorrow night and I'll prove it._

_Until then,_

_James_

"Isn't just a little _too_ forward? I mean, naughty: is that what I want to come off as?"

"If you want to get some before the end of the decade," House told him.

"And why did you sign it 'James?'"

"Would you rather I put my own name at the end?"

"I'm just saying, it sounds too…I don't know…"

"Relax, Jimmy. You want it to sound different. It shows you're really ready to take your relationship out the doors of that hospital and out to dinner, into bed, on the beach, wherever."

"I still don't know if—"

House hit the Send button before Wilson could finish his sentence. "Too late. Destiny has spoken. Get some sleep. With any luck, you'll need it for optimal performance tomorrow."

* * *

At six thirty the next evening, Wilson was a nervous wreck. He'd only spoken to Cuddy briefly during the day, but judging from the smile on her face, she hadn't been too upset to learn that he wasn't all nice. Still, he was petrified. 

After the sixth attempt at knotting his tie, he threw it to the ground in frustration and decided to brush his teeth one last time instead. He studied himself in the mirror when he was through. "Looking good," he said out loud, and, dear God, his voice was cracking like he was going through a second puberty. He'd have to fix that, and fast.

He glanced at the Listerine next to the sink. A final gargle, he decided, for luck…

* * *

"_Ouch_!" 

Cuddy was in the shower after getting home late and somehow she already knew this evening was going to be a disaster. She looked at the red stripe of blood running down her calf and muttered, "It's like bathing with Jack the Ripper." She forced herself to slow down, finished shaving without another incident, and got out of the shower.

Twenty minutes later, she gave herself the once-over. Apart from the band-aid on her knee, she didn't look just hideous, but was it _right_? Hair down, meticulously applied make-up—she'd even managed to squeeze herself into that little black dress she hadn't worn since God knew when. It had better have been right. If she messed this up…

The doorbell rang.

* * *

_Oh, God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh _God…. 

Cuddy opened the door and smiled at him. "Hi," she said pleasantly.

"Hi," he said. "Ready?"

"Absolutely." She stepped onto the front stoop—which, she noticed happily, was quite cramped, _perfect_ for a goodnight kiss, should there be one for her in the near future—and asked, "So where are we going?"

What had he decided to tell her? Ah, yes. "That's for me to know and you to find out," he replied, and she giggled. He was all right now—just stay calm…and for God's sake, don't…what had House said he wasn't supposed to do?

Who cared? He could handle it.

They got into Wilson's car and drove away.

* * *

Gimme an R!

R!

Gimme an E!

E!

Gimme a V!

V!

Gimme an I!

I!

Gimme an E!

E!

Gimme a W!

W!

What's that spell?

REVIEW!

I've always secretly wanted to be a cheerleader. :)


	4. Just CANE't Win

**Item One: **The saga of chapter four is a very sad one. I power-wrote my way through seven pages of sheer idiocy, proofread for typos, and posted it without a thought. The next day I went to admire my handy-work…and realized that, frankly, it kind of sucked. So I took it down, re-wrote it, and waited for quite some time to make sure it was good enough for my darling readers to experience. I apologize for the pure and utter lameness of version 1.0 of this chapter; 2.0, I'm hoping, will be much better.

**Item Two: **I don't own House or Cyrano de Bergerac.

* * *

Chapter Four:

_So far, so good. So far, so good. So far, so good…_

It was Wilson's mantra for the evening, and he mentally repeated it as the night wore on. Everything was fine so far, but _God_, he was nervous. He had to make sure not to slip up. His soul, his dignity, his very life depended on it—he couldn't let House be right, not about this.

_So far, so good._

Cuddy had seemed appropriately impressed but not just amazed when he drove up to the nicest restaurant in town. He figured he earned points for opening every door in their path and springing for the most expensive wine on the menu, although perhaps the incident involving a narrow aisle and a heavy tray of steaming hot entrees as they were escorted to their table may have not been his smoothest move of the evening. Nevertheless, they were sitting there now, menus open, casually discussing scallops and prime rib as though nothing was going on…

_So far, so good._

A waiter approached the table. "What can I get for you?" he asked, expertly whipping out a pad of paper and pen.

"How about the spaghetti?" Cuddy ordered. "With lots of meatballs." She smiled coyly at Wilson; all he could do was wonder if that was supposed to be a metaphor for something.

"Spaghetti for the lady," the waiter said. "And for you, sir?"

"I'll have what she's having," he managed to choke, even though he'd originally planned on the flounder.

"Spaghetti for the lady…_and_ gentleman," the waiter said. "Your food will be ready shortly."

Wilson waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then turned to Cuddy with what he hoped was an enigmatic grin on his face. "Did I tell you about the clinic patient I had the other day? Craziest guy ever—wanted to know if his kid could get chicken pox from going on a field trip to a farm with his class. So I told him no, and then he started asking me about small pox and whether I thought the kid looked scrawny for his age—"

"Let's just suffice it to say that patients are a different breed of people and leave it at that for the night, shall we?" Cuddy said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "I was kind of hoping that we could leave the hospital behind for just an hour or two. Get to know each other a little bit."

"Yeah," Wilson said confidently. "Okay."

"So," Cuddy said. "How are you?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Fine."

There was a pause, and something House had said silently nagged him: _You won't know what to say, you won't know what to say, you won't know what to say…_

"Actually, I'm feeling a tiny bit…ummm…_melancholy_!" Wilson announced dramatically, hoping to inspire some deeper conversation.

"Melancholy? Why is that?" Cuddy asked, sounding concerned. Before he knew it, she had reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his. "I hope everything's all right."

"Everything's…fine," he stammered. Good God, the last time Julie had laid her own hands on him was when she caught him spying on their neighbor, a pencil-thin blonde who liked to parade through her backyard in nothing but a little black bikini, and that hadn't been anything like _this_… "Couldn't be better."

"So you're melancholy because you're…happy?" Cuddy said, confused. She leaned forward anxiously.

Wilson began to sweat profusely as he looked at her, trying not to remember House's words. They came to him anyway, rushing in and out of his ears like a series of slaps: _How do you think it's going to feel when she's sitting right across from you, with her hands next to yours and her pretty smile flashing out at you and her cleavage hanging out all over the table? _Wilson hadn't known how he would feel and, could he have chosen at this late date, would have happily remained ignorant to what he was feeling now, which could only be defined as severe carnal panic. _My God_, he thought, staring at her chest, _now I see why House gets so worked up._

"Wilson? Are you all right?" Cuddy asked.

"I'm…oh, God…I think…" Wilson tried to loosen his tie, suddenly feeling suffocated. "Cuddy…"

"What's wrong?"

"I think…I think…" He stared at her, the proverbial deer caught in headlights. "I think I'm going to be sick." And he was, all over the pristine white tablecloth.

* * *

The last thing Wilson remembered was hurling. That was bad enough, but when he awoke in a hospital bed with the familiar faces of ER nurses and doctors all around him, he immediately wished he was dead.

"Wilson!" an anxious voice cried. He turned in its direction and saw Cuddy's relieved face smiling down at him. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," he said. "My head kind of hurts…what happened? Why am I here?"

"Well," Cuddy said, clearly embarrassed for him, "after you threw up, you were feeling so lightheaded that you fainted and, in the process, hit your head on the edge of the table. It turns out you had a pretty respectable concussion. I suppose calling an ambulance was futile, but—"

"There was an ambulance?" Wilson whispered. "My God, Cuddy, was that really necessary?"

"I didn't want to take any chances! I thought maybe there was something going on with you, something that you weren't telling me—" it suddenly dawned on her "—something that made you _melancholy_! Wilson, you were going to tell me something! What was it?"

Well, he couldn't very well tell her the only reason he had puked all over their dinner was because he was heartsick, now, could he? Wilson remained silent.

"Well? What's wrong? Are you sick? Maybe _that's_ why you weren't yourself tonight! Oh, my God. Oh, my God, it's cancer, isn't it? Wilson, tell me!"

"I can't," he said pleadingly. "I can't, I can't!"

"If you were really my friend, if you really cared what I thought about you, you'd tell me what was wrong!"

"I…I…"

"You…what?"

Wilson sighed. "I need to rest."

Cuddy pursed her lips and stared at him, unsure of what to do. "Fine," she said finally. "That's probably a good idea. I'll let you sleep."

"Will you be all right getting home?" he asked.

"House is going to give me a ride. What do you think?"

_Oh, God. Not that. _Anything_ but that._

"Enjoy the ride," he told her as he watched her retreat. Once she was gone, Wilson sank back into his bed and groaned. It was over.

* * *

House was waiting outside of the hospital when Cuddy emerged from the doors, looking strangely old in her high heels and black dress—her default "fun" outfit. He watched her walk to the car, folded into her own embrace as she rubbed her bare arms in the cold. _Poor Cuddy_, he thought, and he actually meant it. He had never seen her like this.

He'd been at home when Cuddy had called him. He remembered how surprised he was when he picked up the phone to hear her say, "I'm at the hospital. Can you give me a ride home?" Wilson had, apparently, fallen ill with a severe strain of influenza or some such virus. Bullshit. House knew exactly what had invaded his system, and it wasn't any virus—_au contraire, _all his friend was suffering from was an unexpected overload of testosterone.

Still, he couldn't get over the fact that Wilson had actually _barfed _because of it.

House flipped the power locks open, and Cuddy got in. "So," he said conversationally, "was this your plan all along?"

"What plan?" she asked irritably.

"Ditch Wilson at the hospital so we could make our romantic getaway."

"House, I'm not in the mood right now."

"I could change that."

"I doubt it." Cuddy sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "I don't get it. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't take my advice, for one thing," House said. "I told you to go spinster-chic, and what do you do? Hit him with the little black dress right off the bat."

"I just wanted to look nice!"

"For God's sake, Cuddy, you'd look nice in a garbage bag," House grumbled. Too late, he realized his mistake. "I mean, you know, _Wilson_ would have thought you'd look nice in a garbage bag."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but Wilson himself already disproved that theory. If you're trying to make me feel better, that certainly won't help."

_Nice job, Casanova,_ House thought bitterly. "So _what_ did you say he did again?"

They analyzed Wilson's inexplicable condition for the rest of the trip. When they arrived at her house, House unlocked the doors. Before Cuddy got out she said, "House, do me a favor."

"You know, I've been doing a lot of favors for you lately," House said. "I think I deserve some kind of…reward."

Cuddy sighed. "I only reward favors that actually work out."

"I got you the date!"

"And look how it turned out! The least you could have done was warn me that—"

"I _did_ warn you that it was a bad idea!"

"You _didn't_ warn me that I'd make him feel like _that_!" she cried. "I don't know, I suppose he could have really been sick, but what if that wasn't it? What if he was faking it to get out of that ridiculous awkward conversation we were having? What if I just make him feel that way anyway? Oh, my God, House, I literally made a man _sick_!"

House wasn't sure what to say. "The couple that spews together stays together," he said finally.

This sentiment didn't seem to help Cuddy much. "Thanks for the ride, House," she mumbled, shutting the door. House thought he saw her reach up and quickly swipe at her eyes, but he couldn't be sure in the dim light.

"That does it," he said to himself, putting the car into gear. "If Wilson won't do this on his own, I'm going to make him."

* * *

What the devil is House up to? Will Wilson's stomach ever settle? What will Cuddy be wearing next? Find out in the next installment of _True Love is a Wooden Cane_.

I swear, the next chapter won't take me quite this long to post.


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